


All the colors we are inside (have not been invented yet)

by iiscos



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, also Colombia NT as flower shop employees, mentions of others from RM/Spain NT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 13:51:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4748759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iiscos/pseuds/iiscos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a universe where everyone is colorblind until they first fall in love, James is a florist at a local flower shop. Isco still can't see color at age 24.</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the colors we are inside (have not been invented yet)

**Author's Note:**

> I had so much fun writing for [futbal-minibang](http://futbal-minibang.livejournal.com/) for a third time, and I encourage everyone to enter future rounds! Thank you [Karo](http://archiveofourown.org/users/heyitsk) for being an amazing Beta, and [Milla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LeapAngstily) for the beautiful and thoughtful photo set to go with this story. Title adapted from Colors by Shel Silverstein.

There was a fairy tale that Isco’s mother used to read to him that spoke of a time long ago when the world was gray. A noble knight returning from a voyage found an injured fox on the side of the road. Too kind-hearted to leave the animal to die, the knight took the fox to his home and dressed her wounds, saving her from her hunters and the unforgiving winter. Having fallen in love with the knight, the fox left his home and braved snow and storm so she could journey to the highest of mountains and pray for the gods to turn her human. The Goddess of Light—touched by her tenacity and devotion—offered a single drop of the sun to her tongue. With sunlight in her veins, the fox returned to the knight as a beautiful maiden and greeted him with a kiss that brought color to humanity.

  


  


The first color Victoria saw was red. They were both fifteen, and Isco was in the midst of biting into an apple when Vito pointed it out. It was a brief flicker, but something about the apple had changed that she couldn’t quite put her finger on it—not the shape, not the texture, not the size. For Isco, though, the apple looked the same no matter which angle he turned it or how long he frowned at the dull, medium gray. 

Vito began to notice other objects as the days passed—the bell peppers hanging in her grandmother’s garden, the cardinals that sang their morning melodies, even Isco’s shirt when he played football for their high school team. 

“They’re colors,” Vito said one day, even though both she and Isco had suspected it for a while now. “I knew it was going to happen— _soon_ —but I never thought it would be like this.” 

They were certainly too old for fairy tales but only slightly too old for untimely, awkward talks with their parents about the nature of color vision and how it came to be. Seeing color is one of the most amazing and beautiful experiences of growing up. It is a milestone to adulthood, a momentous outcome of experiencing romantic love for the first time. 

But Isco was fifteen, and these kinds of talks made him want to scoff and gag and roll his eyes. He liked Victoria a lot though, especially the crinkles at her eyes when she laughed and the way her dark hair almost touched her shoulders. They had been holding hands for three months already, and the night before, they had kissed. 

By the time they were seventeen, Victoria could see every color of the spectrum. Her vision wasn’t perfect; sometimes the colors would flicker and fade at the corners of her eyes, but that was normal. Most of their friends were experiencing the same phenomenon. 

Isco wondered why he was different. 

He had always been a late bloomer of sorts—his mother attempted to comfort him—the shortest boy in his grade until last year when he grew an impressive four inches. And even then, he only reached the ear of the average boy. But now, it wasn’t just about Isco anymore. It was about Vito too, his girlfriend of two years who was in love with him, who could see autumn and sunsets because of the love he was certain they shared. 

When he felt optimistic, Isco would convince himself (and Vito) that he could see faint hints of color that came as quickly as they had gone. But when he felt honest, he knew that not a single thing in this vast, gray world had changed since the moment he opened his eyes. 

The evening before he turned eighteen, Isco crawled through Vito’s window while her parents were away, and they made love for the first time. The next morning, Vito woke to golden sunshine streaming through her curtains, beckoning them with the signs of spring. Outside, her orange tabby bustled amidst the budding flora of her family’s garden, while the sky above was impossibly blue, without even a single cloud to mar the crisp April morning. 

Isco approached Victoria at the window, hugging her from behind and burying his face into the long, dark hair that now reached her back. When he finally gathered the courage to open his eyes, he saw nothing but black, white, and hues of gray. 

  


  


“It’s not achromatopsia,” the doctor concludes with a frank cluck of his tongue, “Which is good news.” 

Isco would roll his eyes if he weren’t obliged to stare unblinkingly into a bright, unwavering light. “I know,” he says instead, at the end of a long sigh. 

“Adolescent black-white monochromacy,” the doctor states, switching off his little flashlight and jotting offhandedly onto his clipboard. “Which is interesting, considering you’re well past the onset of puberty.” 

Isco is also aware of that. He should perhaps add that he is not photophobic, nor does he display any abnormalities in visual acuity. He does not have a family history of vision defects, and his cone to rod receptor ratio is just fine. He exercises three times a week, takes vitamin supplements with his meals, and hasn’t had a traumatic head injury since he fell off his bike in fourth grade. He is mildly myopic, but he has a prescription for that. So all in all, his vision is completely normal—except for, you know, the color blindness. 

Isco had to go through these tedious formalities every stepping-stone of his academic career—high school, college, and graduate studies. Entering the job market proves to be no exception, which makes sense considering monochromacy _is_ a disability, in adults. 

“And it has always been like this?” Dr. Kroos speaks Spanish fluently, but his accent is unquestionably German—stiff, formal, and artificially precise. He eludes the same professionalism and confidence as any qualified physician, even if he looks barely a year or two older than Isco. “You’ve never experienced any indications of color during your teenage years?” 

“No,” Isco responds, resigned. 

“Are you sexually active?” 

“No.” 

“Were you ever sexually active?” 

“Yes.” 

Isco had opted against visiting his family doctor, even though Dr. Miguel has a thick manila envelope of all his medical records since birth. There is no treatment for monochromacy other than allowing nature to run its course, and Isco wasn’t in the mood to deal with Dr. Miguel’s undisguised sympathy—as if Isco’s persisting condition was a personal disappointment. 

He had hoped that talking to a new doctor would be less nauseatingly awkward. He was wrong. 

“Adolescent monochromacy is a bit of a misnomer,” Dr. Kroos says, somewhat surprisingly, considering his decided aloofness during the better part of the appointment. “We call it that because adolescents are the affected population, although that’s normal for them. Symptoms usually disappear completely by adulthood, but correlation and causation are two very different things.” 

“It’s something about hormones, right? Reaching a threshold level that can trigger inactive, light detecting opsins in the eye.” Monochromacy is the bane of Isco’s existence, so naturally he has read up on the literature. Science and medicine have made few—albeit, valiant—attempts at solving this problem, but the rarity of the ailment limits the sample sizes studied, not to mention the amount of government funding allocated to research. 

Nevertheless, Isco would rather avoid delving into an in-depth analysis of his unfortunate disorder with this admittedly hot, young doctor. He came here for paperwork, not for a cure. 

“Hormones are the molecular explanation, but it’s a social phenomenon,” the doctor explains, “Pumping your system full of dopamine and serotonin alone won’t do the trick.” 

Isco frowns. He knows what he has to do. He has done it, even. It’s just that what has worked for other people doesn’t seem to work for him—and if he really wanted to have this conversation, he would’ve gone to a therapist instead. 

The only thing keeping him from doing so is the fear of learning something about himself that he doesn’t wish to know. 

“But you’re young. Maybe there’s still room to develop, who knows?” The doctor offers with a small smile. “I’m sure you’ve heard this plenty of times. Be careful at intersections, if you drive. Keep around an expiration chart for groceries and produce. And the next time your annoying friend tries to fix you up, consider the offer.” 

~~

Color vision is not dependent on soul mates, because soul mates don’t actually exist. Former NASA roboticist Randall Munroe debunked the theory using simple algebra. On this planet of 7.1 billion people, every person would have around half a billion potential soul mates (given a similar-age restriction). And if we were to assume that the average person sees up to 30 new faces per day—and 10% of the people satisfy the age criteria—then throughout our lifetime, we would meet up to 50,000 possible lovers. And seeing that 50,000 is only 0.01% of 500,000,000, true love can only be probabilistically achieved one out of 10,000 lifetimes. It’s not exactly an ideal situation for anyone involved but, luckily, humans have a much more boundless potential to love. And as the old saying goes, there are plenty of fish in the sea, plenty of people with whom one can form a compatible, lasting relationship.

So no, Isco is not counting on his one true love to bring to him the gift of color, but he would be woefully in denial to say that love and color are merely correlations. 

First love, young love is not always pragmatic love, often failing to endure the test of time. Instead, young love embodies a unique intensity that sweeps like delirium into untried hearts and delivers emotions so irrefutable and new, just as colors are to the eye.

Seeing color does not mean the perfect love, but the potential for something beautiful, inspiring, resounding, and real. And not seeing color at the ripe age of 24… Isco still isn’t sure what that means. Though, it doesn’t help that colorblind adults are three times more likely to become serial killers.

After dropping off his medical forms to human resources, Isco stops inside a small city park surrounded by tall glass buildings. Behind one of the large floor-to-ceiling windows is the office where he will be starting his internship next week. Isco finds a seat on a secluded stone bench and opens his laptop, scrolling through the files in preparation for work.

He has written a script that can scan documents and reassign color codes to varying shades of colorblind-friendly gray—red to _gray22_ , green to _gray48_ , blue to _gray76_. It’s funny almost, how easily Isco can program a computer to perceive color, while his own eyes are limited to light and shadow.

He takes a photo of a dog walker, a rendezvousing couple, and children playing by the fountain before uploading them into his program. He learns that the Labrador is yellow (just like his Messi), and the dress of his owner white with blue polka dots. A young blonde-haired girl twirls by the fountain, laughing as she reaches for her brother, a docile boy with a green cap and matching golden hair. And beneath a nearby tree, a woman in black with short red curls leans into her lover for a kiss.

Isco falls three standard deviations from the norm, which accounts for 99.7% of the population. So on this planet of 7.1 billion people, roughly 2 million have yet to see color at Isco’s age.

He takes another look at the passersby in the park—a mother pushing a carriage of twin boys, a tattooed young man skidding past on a skateboard, a college student walking with her nose in her book. 

It’s strange—he thinks—how one could be surrounded by people and yet feel incredibly alone.

  


  


“I’m so glad you made it!” Adriana greets Isco with a warm hug and a peck on his cheek. She takes a quick glance over his shoulder, perhaps hoping to see someone behind him. A flicker of her eyelashes had given her away, and Isco wouldn’t have noticed if he weren’t so used to noticing. 

“Sorry, I didn’t get a chance to make anything,” he says sheepishly, “I brought wine, though.” 

“Oh, it’s fine, really.” Adriana takes the bottle of Rioja from him. “I know it’s been a busy few weeks. We’re just happy to have you.” 

She guides him inside with a soft touch on his arm, her smile intact. “Come on in. Dani is in the living room watching the game. Nacho and Maria should be here any minute.” 

They had met during college, at _Universidad de Madrid_. Dani and Nacho were Isco’s assigned roommates freshman year, and they quickly formed a close-knit bond over a mutual enthusiasm for football, video games, and movies so awful they were almost good. Maria was Nacho’s high school sweetheart, his first love. She didn’t go to the same university as the rest of them, but she and Nacho took turns flying across the country every month to see each other. They all met Adriana sophomore year during the annual summer festival. Isco remembers sitting next to Dani on the grass, waiting for the concert to begin, when his friend nudged him on the shoulder and pointed to a girl in a white summer dress with flowers in her hair. 

“I think she’s beautiful,” Dani had said, a beer or two in his system already. “I want to marry her.” 

Dani and Adriana are not married yet, but after four years and three apartments together, it’s only a matter of time before they settle down. 

The four of them are the best friends Isco has ever known—his found family, if you will. They are also the _only_ friends Isco still talks to, ever since framing his diploma in the living room of his proud parents’ home. 

“I’m guessing Álvaro didn’t work out,” Adriana doesn’t bring up the inevitable until everyone is seated around the table, supper already served. 

“No,” Isco shrugs, eyes fixed on the movement of his fork as he takes his first bite of _Conchiglie_. 

“I didn’t like that guy,” Dani claims forthrightly, pointing his utensil with emphasis. “He had the face of a lost rabbit. And his beard was patchy.” 

“He never grew his beard out,” Isco informs. 

“I can tell by just looking at him,” Dani mumbles through the chunks of pasta between his teeth. “His follicles. Patchy.” 

“I’m really sorry,” Adriana offers a small, sympathetic smile. Isco grimaces, waving it away. 

“No, don’t be. It wasn’t a big deal or anything, and—honestly, I feel relieved.” 

“And your—uh—” Maria taps a finger to her temple, right beside the corner of her eye. 

Isco shakes his head, the food in his mouth suddenly dry and tasting like sawdust. He knows his friends mean well, but he had spent all day at work trying to downplay this unfortunate aspect of himself, so it really is the last thing he wants to think about now, during his down time. 

“Maybe we can introduce you to someone,” Adriana suggests, nudging Dani. 

Dani looks at Isco, his expression faintly ominous. Isco doesn’t think it’s a good idea either, considering it wasn’t a good idea last time, with Jesé, the Hip Hop starlet. 

“Look, I appreciate you guys trying to help, but I have a lot going on right now. And I just want a few weeks—a month maybe—to myself, to focus on work.” 

“I just hate seeing other parts of your life on hold,” Adriana frowns, “Because of this.” 

“Well, it’s not like I know what I’m missing out on,” Isco attempts to joke but it comes out woeful, bitter. 

They drop the topic after that, with Dani discussing the positive start to Real Madrid’s season, and Nacho and Maria sharing their wedding plans after a happy six-month engagement. Isco chews sullenly at his food—too exhausted to join in much of the conversation. More and more frequently their group dinners have ended up like this, with Isco’s friends talking around him rather than to him. A sad, wallowing part of Isco’s brain wonders why he still comes, why he even gets invited. 

~~

“I’m really not supposed to take personal calls,” Isco says, rubbing at his tired eyes. “And I was planning to run scripts all night. Does it have to be now?”

Adriana’s voice is frazzled and desperate over the phone. “My sister’s concert is tonight, in Berlin. I won’t be back until next Tuesday! And I promised Maria I’d get it done. It took her so long to trust me with anything involving the wedding, and we’re supposedly best friends!”

“Well, I can’t say that she didn’t have a point,” Isco sighs into the microphone. “You’re obviously fucking something up already.”

“ _Isco_ —” Adriana wheedles, drawing out his name in long, whiney syllables. “Please do this for me? I’ll name our cat after you. And our first born.”

“Fine, fine,” Isco groans at the ceiling. “I’ll get those damn flower samples. Does Maria know what she wants, at least?”

“I have no clue,” Adriana says at the end of a delighted squeal, “But they have sample collections if you go on the website. It’s the first thing they advertise. I stopped by the shop this morning—a charming, little place just downtown. The clerk was real cute.”

“Alright, okay, you’re welcome,” Isco says pointedly. Adriana laughs on the other end. 

“You’re awesome and sweet for helping out a friend,” she teases, “Don’t ruin the good karma by being your grumpy old self.”

Isco feels a reluctant smile forming on his lips. He bids farewell to Adriana before ending the call. 

Alone in his office once more, he sinks into his seat, rubbing at the small, tired ache festering above his left eye. He watches the incandescent numbers on his computer screen shift quickly and sporadically, the little fan inside the case buzzing as the machine works in overdrive. Despite telling himself repeatedly that everything is _fine_ , the rancorous twist in his stomach persists. It makes it hard to focus on anything else.

He wishes he had never taken his eyes off of his work in the first place or stepped outside his cubicle for a water break.

“What’d you think of that new tech intern?” Isco had inadvertently overheard a conversation between two analysts in the conference room.

“I don’t know,” Fernando shrugged. “Nice kid. Works hard. Doesn’t talk much.”

Sergio leaned in to whisper, but his voice traveled despite his half-hearted efforts to be discreet. “He’s colorblind apparently—the desperately in need of getting laid kind.”

“What?” Fernando laughed, out of disbelief. “No way. How’d you know?”

“Piqué saw him changing the colors on tomorrow’s presentation to gray. Christ, can you believe that? You know what this kid should be doing instead?”

The rest of the conversation faded into the background, replaced by the white noise of crushing dread. Isco returned to his desk and slumped into his chair, running a shaky hand through the front of his hair. That awful mix of embarrassment, anxiousness and self-deprecation kept him paralyzed for an hour at least before Adriana called. 

Vicente knew about Isco’s monochromacy before hiring him, and Isco has learned to work around it, as he promised. He never intended to keep it a secret from his colleagues, although it’s not something one generally broadcasts either. Nonetheless, in Isco’s copious experience, no amount of measured anticipation can save him from feeling like shit in the end.

Isco sighs, minimizing his script window and opening Chrome. The misery will pass, he tells himself. It always passes, even if he will suffers before it does—and for far longer than he ought to.

He clicks on the link that Adriana sent, succumbing to the distraction. The name of the flower shop— _Girasol_ —loads in large, cursive letters. And sure enough, the wedding collections are the first advertisement beneath the decorative banner. Isco clicks on it, only to be lead to an error page.

In fact, most of the links are dead due to poor maintenance, Isco soon realizes. It’s not something he can fix on his end, but he does manage to locate the floral samples after a few roundabout tries, only for his credit card to be declined twice at checkout.

“Ugh!” He groans in exasperation, reaching for his phone instead. He dials the number to the shop and taps his fingers impatiently against his desk, until someone finally answers on the fifth ring.

“Hello! Welcome to _Girasol_ ,” the guy on the other end practically chirps. “How can I help you?”

“Can I get your wedding floral samples?” Isco asks, untouched. 

“Um—” He hears some shuffling, followed by muffled dialogues. Not the most organized of businesses, Isco has to assume. “Yes—Okay! Do you have any preferences for which sets you would like?”

Isco hesitates briefly, before deciding, “No, just give me the recommended ones.”

“Oh.” The guy sounds momentarily caught out. “Okay, how about the _Champagne Ivory_ , or the _Red and White_ roses and lilies sets?”

“Sure, sounds good.”

“ _Vivacious Orange_ is also really nice.” The guy thinks aloud, almost, even though Isco is hardly in the mood to sustain conversation. “It has shower bouquets for a more modern wedding, which I guess is a personal recommendation. Or—if you want, I can direct you to photos on our website. It’s a bit jumbled, but we’re still in the process of—”

“No, it’s fine,” Isco interrupts. “I don’t actually care. I just want what people usually get. Three or four should be fine.”

“Sure thing, sir,” the guy responds, good-natured and accommodating—but then again, he is in the service industry. “Sir, that will be—”

“My credit card is under the name Francisco Alarcón,” Isco cuts him off rudely for the second time, before spelling his name in full. He then recites the rest of the information without even waiting for a confirmation from the other end. “Did you get all that?”

“Yes.” 

“I’d like to have them by the end of the day. Can you do that?”

“Would that be all, sir?” The guy appears to have lost much of the enthusiasm from before. Isco feels a depraved sense of accomplishment.

“My shipping address is 62 _Calle de Luna_. Apartment six. “

A heavy stretch of silence passes. Isco can still hear the guy breathing, so he knows that he’s there, at least.

“Well?” he asks, just as the guy responds hesitantly, as if anticipating scorn.

“We can’t deliver them.”

“You don’t do delivery,” Isco repeats. It’s actually outrageous.

“Radamel, our truck driver, left early after his wife went into labor,” the employee rambles needlessly, “And none of us have a trucking license, so I’m afraid you’ll have to pick up the samples if you want them today or tomorrow. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, sir.”

“Okay, fine,” Isco sighs. Considering his luck today, he shouldn’t even be surprised at the pointless hassle. “I can stop by around six. Will they be ready then?”

“Yes, six would be perfect!” the guy replies, relieved to have placated a difficult customer. 

Isco feels unnerved—a droplet of guilt joining his already depressed thoughts. Feeling awful is not an excuse to behave awfully, and Isco is plainly aware of how discourteous he has been to this stranger. Shame sinks into his heart, along with helpless disappointment with himself, but then again, if emotions adhered so readily to logic, Isco wouldn’t be diagnosed with monochromacy at age 24.

The silence between them feels unnaturally long, but the guy is still there, waiting. 

“Thank you,” Isco eventually says, tired and suddenly overwhelmed by the suffocating smallness of his cubicle. He hangs up before the guy responds, hoping that an early lunch break will be the solution to his troubled mind.

  


  


Isco fucking _hates_ flowers. 

And it’s not just because he cannot perceive or appreciate their vibrant beauty. No, his hatred is more profound, more symbolic, just like how flowers are a symbol of the grotesque commodification of modern love. 

Initially, Isco blames the French, who first appointed a holiday to romance simply based on the mating cycle of birds. This seemingly innocuous whimsy eventually spiraled into the dreadful gift-giving culture we know today, where human insecurities about love are brazenly exploited by capitalist greed. 

Society perpetuates a pernicious myth, stamping monetary value on human emotions and shamelessly alluding to the possibility that dead plant carcasses could mean anything more than dead plant carcasses. Love is not what you buy or what you have for show. No, love is about empathy, commitment, trust, and self-sacrifice. Isco knows what love is, even if only in theory. More importantly, he knows what love isn’t. 

He’s had a lot of time to think about it—the way he is now. And he has never regarded flowers with such unadulterated hatred prior to this moment, as he stands before the quaint, little brick-walled shop with cheery welcomes written on the windows and rows of assorted bouquets proudly displayed on the stands outside. 

The interior of the store slightly deviates from the charming perfection Isco anticipated upon entering. The small shopkeeper’s bell signifies his presence, but no one follows up with a greeting as he pauses awkwardly at the door. Shelves as high as the ceiling hold potted plants and cut flowers alike, while ribbons, wrapping paper, and shreds of foliage lay scattered on the newly polished hardwood floor. At the clerk’s desk are boxes piled so high that Isco can only catch the short, dark hair of the only employee present. 

“Hello?” Isco calls out. “I’m here to pick up wedding samples.” 

“Yes, of course!” The guy—the same one from before—responds immediately, although he is evidently preoccupied with other tasks. “They’re right on the bench to your left. In the blue boxes.” 

Isco looks to his left and sees stacks among stacks of boxes, all in daunting shades of gray. 

“We are a bit under-staffed at the moment,” the guy rambles on, completely oblivious to the panic ringing in Isco’s ears. “Please excuse the mess.” 

He stumbles from behind the clerk’s desk, holding his own set of packages. Isco locks eyes with the employee—a twenty-something male with dark hair and dark eyes and a smile so open and genuinely sweet that Isco has to blink away. 

“Is something the matter, sir?” the guy asks. “They’re all ready for you on the bench.” He pauses briefly when Isco makes no gesture to move. “In blue.” 

It was a combination of reactions from Isco—the helpless silence, the blood rushing to his ears, his inability to meet the man’s eyes—that eventually leads the flower shop employee to the correct conclusion. 

“Oh—” the guy says, dropping the packages in his arms onto the nearest counter. “I’m so sorry—let me get them for you. _Christ_ —uh.” 

The employee hurries to the bench, catching his foot in a ribbon. He kicks for a second to get free, before returning with two boxes, impressively sized considering all Isco had asked for were samples. 

“Thanks,” Isco breathes out, painfully reminded—for the second time today—of the stigma attached to his condition. Pity or ridicule is all he ever has the pleasure of seeing in the faces around him. He is so sick of it, but there is nothing he can do. 

“Wait!” the florist calls out, just as Isco is half out the door. “I forgot, but—I need you to sign for the package. It’s kind of overkill—I know—but we just opened, and we’d like to start with good reviews.” 

“Uh—yeah.” Isco halts in his step. 

The guy takes a few seconds to pull up the receipt on his mini tablet, standing close enough for Isco to smell fresh cut flowers and a hint of deodorant. It’s crushingly vivid and does nothing to ease the anxiety attack Isco feels building. Isco scribbles his signature quickly, figuring the sooner he can escape, the sooner he can erase this horrid day from his memory and combat tomorrow anew. 

“Thank you,” the guy says after dutifully completing the transaction. 

Isco doesn’t bother with a response, turns around, and fucking runs. 

  


  


There are a couple of things that Isco has passively been avoiding for the last few weeks. If he were to rank them in order of increasing importance, they would go something like this: cleaning out his car trunk, tidying his apartment, changing his bathroom light, calling his parents, consulting a therapist, reconsidering his career options, and finally, ordering more clothes from Amazon. 

Only recently has his need for new clothes climbed to the top of the list. The hole in the pocket of Isco’s favorite jeans has been steadily expanding with each wear, and while he didn’t mind when the occasional coin fell through, the aperture has now reached a point where Isco feels nervous keeping anything of value in there. 

However, muscle memory is perhaps one of the most difficult memories to override, and when Isco arrives at his apartment with two boxes of flower samples and no keys, it only takes him a few seconds to conjure the likely explanation. 

“Fuck,” he groans, pressing his forehead against his door. 

The sky outside is a stormy gray, and Isco thought himself lucky to have reached his apartment before the first drop had fallen. Now, the thunder is rumbling like war among the clouds, while the rain pelts against the windows so harshly that it feels like a punishment. 

With his car in the shop, Isco could’ve dropped the keys anywhere between the office, the flower shop, and his apartment building. Too exhausted to deal with his current predicament, he reaches for his phone to call Dani. 

“Hey.” 

Isco turns around to see the guy from the flower shop, drenched from head to toe. His hair is matted and sticking out at odd angles, while the white button-down shirt of his work clothes has become see-through now that it’s been soaked to the core. He has his hands on the handles of his bike as he steers it down the corridor, leaving behind a thin trail of water. 

“Found them just outside of the shop,” the guy says, reaching into his pocket to pull out Isco’s keys. “I think these are yours.” 

“They are,” Isco says, dumbfounded. “How’d you know where I live?” 

“You gave me your mailing address.” 

“How’d you get inside the building?” 

“Someone was leaving right when I got here.” 

“Okay.” It makes sense. It’s all believable. “And you decided to bike here during a flood warning to return my keys?” 

“Well, I didn’t know it was going to monsoon.” The guy rolls his eyes. “Otherwise, I would’ve just called.” 

He tosses the keys to Isco, who catches it with minimal grace. 

“Uh huh,” Isco gapes stupidly, before adding a curt thank you once he realizes he has yet to express his gratitude. Perhaps he should add learning basic social etiquette to his long list of chores. 

“And I also figured that—uh—” The guy averts his eyes, his voice suddenly hesitant, and Isco recognizes this sort of distinctive caution immediately. He sighs and waits for the guy to summon his words, to bring up Isco’s monochromacy in a graceful manner. “We have labels for colors. I’ve been meaning to put them up, but—I just haven’t gotten the chance to. It’s been a busy first week.” 

Labels facilitate a family-friendly environment and are usually intended for children and teenagers who are just beginning to experience color. Isco tries his best to swallow his disdain. This guy’s intentions are pure, at least. “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind. 

“Just know that you’re welcome to come again,” the flower shop employee blurts out, before biting his lip in apology. Isco stares at him in disbelief. Uncomfortable and marginally offensive doesn’t even begin to describe this conversation. “If you need help choosing flowers for—your wedding, or anything. I’ll be more than happy to help.” 

“My wedding?” Isco repeats, stunned. He blinks slowly at the florist before gradually breaking into a laughing fit. “Christ, you really thought these damn flowers were for me?” 

The florist frowns at him, slightly insulted. “Well, a guy comes into your store, asking for wedding flowers. What’re you supposed to expect?” 

“God, no.” Isco shakes his head. “I was running an errand for a friend. Did you not notice how pissed off I was the entire time?” Not to mention that he couldn’t see color. 

“Yeah, I guess I found that strange,” the guy sheepishly admits, “I thought you were the most unhappy groom-to-be in the world.” 

“I—” Isco leans against his door, at a loss for words. He hardly realizes that he is still grinning. “I’m Isco, by the way.” 

“James,” the florist returns a smile. 

Isco offers a hand to shake, which James accepts. “Sorry for being an asshole earlier.” 

“No, it’s fine. At least you realized it. Some people never do.” 

There is a brief period of silence afterwards, with only the sporadic beating of rain in the background. Isco’s hand feels damp from the summer storm. 

He thinks of the state of his apartment, his furniture in predictable monochrome, the ridiculous Day-Glo cat painting he received from Adriana who coerced him into hanging it, just in case he wakes up one day with the magical ability see color. Isco doesn’t want to extend the invitation but feels as if he should, after the undeserved kindness that James has shown him. 

“Would you like to come in and sit for awhile, until the rain stops?” 

~~

Isco loans James a t-shirt he got at an Arcade Fire concert. It’s a rust color, whatever the hell that means. He hopes it’s a nice color.

Once inside, James appears more concerned about his bike than Isco’s gray scale apartment or his creepy cat painting. The florist spends the first few minutes drying the gears and chains with utmost focus and care.

Isco retrieves his laptop from his backpack. He had left the office early because of his brief meltdown, but he can still make up for the lost time. As long as he has the raw data from the scientists, most of his work can be done at home, although it’s not exactly kosher to abandon his workplace all together. Despite the vast facelessness of the organization and the institutionalized hierarchy within, they are still expected to work as a team.

“So what do you do?” James eventually attempts to start a conversation.

“I work at _Roja_ , Inc,” Isco says. When James offers no initial response, he adds, “You can tell me how ironic that is.”

The florist shrugs. “If that’s what you want to do, then I’m happy for you.”

It is not what Isco wants to do, and he has yet to manage an adequate disguise for his contempt. He stares at James briefly, unsure of how to follow up. Perhaps, he could have steered the conversation in a better direction, but it’s too late now. 

“I’m a tech intern,” he elaborates, but his words tumble out quickly with a touch of shame. “The data crunching kind. I don’t actually oversee any of the research or address the public directly. I just—process data.”

Talking to James makes him feel clumsy, as if the simple exchange of words requires a skill from Isco that had long atrophied from disuse. He can’t even remember the last time he held a conversation longer than ten seconds with someone other than his four friends from college or the assholes at work. 

“I don’t plan on doing this forever,” Isco swallows thickly, unnerved. “But this—it’s what I do now.”

“It’s okay if that’s your job,” James sounds consoling beneath his confusion. “I’m mean—it’s fine not to love your job.”

A tiny voice in his head—belonging to Adriana, most likely—tells him that he’s doing it again. Isco does not say everything that comes to mind, but the things that he does share are undoubtedly affected by his emotions. And sometimes, the glimpses into his mind might come off far worse than the whole of his thoughts.

He takes a moment to reassess the situation. This is neither a confessional nor a therapy session. James does not need to know all of Isco’s blights at this very second.

“I studied programming in college,” Isco says, “I’d like to develop software for robotics and aerospace research one day. This thing at _Roja_ is just an internship to get more experience. I’ll be done with it in two years and, hopefully, move on to something better.”

“Oh, that’s really cool!” James livens up and smiles. “You must be really good with computers.”

“Yeah.” Isco rubs shyly at his neck. Being good with computers is a much broader statement than most people realize, but Isco manages to hold his own whenever Dani discovers a particularly resilient malware or when his grandma needs help resuscitating her windows desktop from ’98. He is handy to have around, for the technologically impaired majority. 

“I can probably take a look at your store website, or something,” he offers.

“Oh,” James says, surprised. “I wasn’t going to, but—I mean—if it’s not too much trouble. It would be great to have a functioning website.”

“Yeah, no—it’s fine. It should be an easy fix,” Isco offers a sidelong smile. “Honestly, you should send all your rude customers to whoever set up that damned thing.”

“Juan gave a good effort,” James laughs, “He’s not an expert like you.”

Isco doubts that redesigning Adriana’s nature blog and a few other websites for his clubs in college would make him an expert, but he welcomes the compliment, regardless. 

It takes him a few minutes to reacquaint himself with the coding language and understand the logic of the original programmer. He spots the amateur mistakes right away—a few unsupported tags and a missing quotation here and there. The rest is just tedious trial and error. He’s not _actually_ an expert, but considering the state of the website before his tampering, there is only room for improvement.

James ends up spending the night on Isco’s couch. The storm doesn’t taper off until early the next morning, and Isco knows because he doesn’t sleep much that night, his mind so inexplicably full of the conversations he had with James, however brief they might’ve been.

He wakes from his erratic sleep late the next morning, and by the time he plods into his living room, James is already gone. The blanket and shirt he had loaned the florist rest on the armrest of his couch in a neatly folded pile. 

Isco feels a twinge of disappointment that he causally brushes off, before spotting a note atop of his kitchen counter, with careful letters etched in dark ink.

_Thank you for your kindness and help. If you ever need a florist or a friend, please don’t hesitate to find me._

_–James_

  


  


“I appreciate you thinking of me constantly,” Isco rolls his eyes, mumbling into the cellphone wedged between his ear and shoulder. “But I really don’t want to be set up right now.” 

“Why not?” Adriana whines. “It’s been two months. You’re ready to meet someone new, and I finally have someone great in mind.” 

“You barely know him. You met him at a housewarming. He probably wants to date you, rather than your male friend.” Isco keeps his eyes glued to the screen, his fingers tapping swiftly and rhythmically against his keyboard. He only half-listens to Adrianna’s repeated appeals. 

Lucas Vasquez. Works in publishing. Believes in a work/life balance and enjoys traveling and exploring new things. Generous, sensitive and good-humored. Part merman. Loves swimming, surfing, deep sea diving and anything involving large bodies of water. Real Madrid fan. 

“This guy sounds crazy,” Isco admits. In fact, Dani texted Isco only moments before Adriana had called, to warn him about a potential bind date with some baby-faced hipster surfer. 

“Unless you have something better going on,” Adriana remains adamant, “There’s no reason for you not to give Lucas a chance. He really is a sweet guy.” 

Isco considers for a brief second, before dropping his voice to an even lower whisper than before. “Does he know—about my—” 

“No,” Adriana hesitates. “Was I supposed to tell him?” 

“No,” he sighs, “But I hate explaining it every time I meet someone new. I hate people’s reactions.” 

He hears a soft knock on the wall of his cubical, but he doesn’t pay heed to it right away. It’s not Casillas, that’s for certain. Casillas never knocks, and Isco would’ve gotten an earful already had it been the senior manager catching him on a personal call. He brings his eyes to his visitor only after completing the last line of coding. 

“Oh my God,” Isco says, realizing James is at his desk. “ _Oh my God_ ,” he repeats as he sees the package tucked beneath the florist’s arms. 

“Sorry for disrupting your call, but I showed Mr. Pékerman the website,” James beams. “He was so impressed by it that he wanted to thank you properly. You really saved us a lot of trouble.” 

James presents to Isco a large bouquet of artfully crafted fruits—pineapple and melon wedges and chocolate-coated berries. 

Isco drops his phone, Adriana’s tiny voice all but a forgotten echo. Three days have passed since James appeared at his apartment, drenched in rainwater. Isco hasn’t forgotten about him, but he hardly expected to see James so soon, let alone in his drab office building. 

“I thought maybe you’d like these more, since you can eat them,” James explains shyly. “I hope you like fruit.” 

“I—I do like fruit.” Isco blinks unsurely at his visitor, barely aware of the slow smile forming on his lips. 

“I just need you to sign here, if you don’t mind.” James pulls up a receipt on the screen of his tablet. 

“You guys seem really compulsive about preventing delivery mistakes,” Isco half-jokes. He didn’t even order the package this time. 

“Well, you know, perishable goods…” James shrugs. “Besides, they wouldn’t let me through security otherwise, and I wanted to make sure you got them.” 

“Oh,” Isco lets out a small, breathy laugh. “Well, congratulations. You’ve infiltrated _Roja_ , Inc, with only a basket of fruit at your disposal. You should consider becoming a spy.” 

“Well, I suppose,” James laughs, too. “I would be terrible at it, but no one would suspect me, right?” 

Isco swears they spend the next minute smiling stupidly at each other. Sergio walks past them, arching a brow. Andrés’ typing in the adjacent cubical tapers off. Isco is suddenly—and regrettably—reminded of where they exactly are. 

“I’m sorry, but—my boss is pretty anal about—” 

“Oh,” James catches on quickly. “No, I’m sorry. I won’t take up anymore of your time.” 

“Thanks for the fruit,” Isco adds, just as James shifts his weight on his heels, preparing to leave. 

“No problem,” the florist smiles, sounding sincere and with a touch of hope. “I guess I’ll see you around?” 

“Yeah, of course.” A small, naïve part of Isco is brimming with joy. “See you around.” 

And just like that, James is gone. Isco sinks back into his seat, his mind a whirlwind of wild hope and crushing realism. He doesn’t realize Adriana is still on the line until he notices the small, ethereal glow of his cellphone beneath his desk. 

“I heard laughing!” Adriana accuses. “I heard attempted flirting. Who was that? Isco—hey, are you still there? Francisco Román Alarcón Suárez, you better tell me who the hell that was!” 

  


  


“Ugh, this one tastes like dirt,” Isco says, making a small choking sound. James, adjacent to him on the park bench, throws his head back and laughs. 

“Well, we should probably wash these,” he suggests as he reaches into Isco’s canvas bag, plucking off one of the grapes they’d bought from the farmer’s market. “I see a water fountain right there.” 

“I’ve never tasted dirt before,” Isco grimaces. “I don’t know why a taste would instinctively remind me of the ground.” 

“Really?” James lofts a brow. “You’ve never tasted dirt? Not even by accident?” 

Isco laughs. “Were you one of those dumb kids who ate mud or something?” 

“No, I just remember falling on my face during football. Getting grass in my mouth.” 

Isco takes a brief second to recollect before admitting, “Right. I’ve done that too. I forgot all about it.” Years have passed since he stepped onto a football pitch. The last time, he remembers seeing gray grass without any thoughts that would dampen his mood. 

“Ugh, okay,” James winces. “I just ate a bad one, too. We should really wash these.” 

“No, come on,” Isco brushes away the suggestion, not wanting to stand up. “Just pick the shinier ones. Look.” 

He pulls a grape off its stem, and when James makes no gesture to receive it, Isco brings the small fruit to the other man’s face. 

“See, it’s a good one, right?” Isco says, his fingertips brushing James’ lips as they part. 

“Okay, let me pick one for you,” James smiles, reaching into the bag again. 

“No, fuck off,” Isco laughs, batting away James’ approaching hand and knocking the grape into a nearby bush. “You can actually see dirt on that one.” 

Madrid is an anonymous and overarching city, but it’s surprising how often you can run into someone when you put in even the tiniest amount of effort. It hadn’t always been a conscious decision, but Isco begins to frequent the places around James’ flower shop. They met twice in the little café across the street, starting their day with a nice chat over biscuits and coffee. James spotted Isco through the window of a bookstore once and joined him for some light reading before going to lunch together. And after two months of happenstance encounters, they finally attempted to coordinate a meeting. 

“There’s a farmer’s market every Saturday on the avenue,” James had suggested. “If you’re interested, we can maybe run into each other there.” 

They did exactly that, and after picking their share of fresh fruits, cheeses, and homemade bread, they improvised a picnic in the nearby park. 

“I always have to shave before I go home,” Isco says as he scratches the scruff beneath his chin. “My parents have this huge useless Labrador—Messi—who flips a shit every time he sees me with a beard. Not all bearded guys, just me. It makes no sense.” 

“I’ve never seen you without a beard,” James is all smiles. 

“Believe me, you’re not missing much. If you can, imagine raw cookie dough.” 

Isco’s phone goes off then, an unknown business number. Probably Sergio, trying to reach him with a new dataset that _maybe_ shows something useful. As an intern, Isco has his weekends off. He’s not obligated to return the call before Monday, but he should attempt to earn some brownie points while he still can. He’s found it more and more difficult to conceal his contempt during work hours, and he can’t exactly afford to lose this job. 

“Why do you hate working at _Roja_ so much?” James asks, and it is perhaps the most straightforward he has ever been on the subject. 

“Do you know what they do?” Isco responds. 

“Well, yeah.” 

“Have you tried it?” 

“No.” Of course not. James is obviously not someone who would be troubled in that aspect of his life. 

“Good,” Isco says, “Because it’s a sham. I’m paid by the firm to tell convenient lies, so they can profit from people’s insecurities.” 

It’s not a great start, but it’s a start. Isco realizes that he has never actually attempted to explain this to anyone. James watches him patiently and listens, as he always does. 

“When we first fall in love, we see color,” Isco begins, “And that’s it. That’s all the help we get. Only about 20 percent of people end up with their first love, so the rest of us are left to decipher our feelings for ourselves. Some people think they’ve lost their only chance. Others are terrified of trying and failing, without something tangible like color to say, ‘Hey, you’re doing something right.’” 

_Roja_ is a business above all else, a multi-million dollar organization that offers a distinctive service to its customers. It is also, in part, a research institute that gathers scientific evidence to help validate the distinctive service it provides. And every successful enterprise requires a formidable public relations team, and that is the niche Isco currently occupies—at the junction between research and the public. 

“They think they have it all figured out,” he explains, “The compatibility between two people that triggers love—or at least the hormones of love. If people returned to colorblindness the moment they fall out of love, _Roja_ believes they have the resources to combat this hypothetical disadvantage. They can find you love without you having to fall in love. There will be no misinformation, no irrationality, no unexpected disappointments. Your personality is mapped, your identity digitalized in their database, and your actions predicted. They have you figured out—along with millions and millions of others. So why waste your time searching for love when a computer can do it for you?” 

“It’s sounds awful,” James frowns, “To treat love like a burden.” 

“What’s worse is that—none of this is true.” Isco feels a bitter twist in his stomach, his words coming too quickly and surprising even himself. “It’s arrogant—demeaning, even—to think that a person can be defined by numbers and algorithms. Humans are too complex. And I know because all this data go through my department. _Roja_ is not making a difference in the realm of love. You’re just as likely to fall in love by walking down the street and talking to the first person that catches your eye. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to meet new people through a database—that’s fine. It’s the self-entitlement and the unrealistic expectations that _Roja_ promotes, having people believe that someone else has done the hard work for them. That there can be a shortcut to happiness, to love.” 

James watches him, his dark eyes lucid and his brows etched with worry. Isco wishes that James were laughing at his jokes instead. “Why don’t you leave?” he eventually asks. 

Isco offers a mirthless smile. “You don’t need love to survive, but you need love—color to live. I wouldn’t have gotten this position, the way I am now, if it weren’t for the good word of a previous mentor. Beggars can’t be choosers, you know?” 

How many nights has Isco spent awake in his bed, plagued by useless thoughts about how _easy_ his life would be if color and love weren’t so inexplicably paired? It’s unfair that humans are designed this way, to treat color as a consolation prize for having loved and lost, and color blindness a cruel punishment for never having loved at all. 

But Isco _is_ capable of love. He loves his family, his friends, his dog. He could love more—and possibly himself, too—if his stigma weren’t so apparent, so integral to every aspect of his life. 

“Do the people you work with know about your—” James asks. 

“Oh, yeah,” Isco sighs, exasperated. “They have people like me lined up in their labs, getting their blood drawn while answering useless personality questionnaires. People like me—we’d be the perfect control if they could cure us, but—I don’t want to see color like that.” 

Isco blinks at the thick, summer foliage directly ahead, not wanting to meet James’ eyes. It drains him to the core, to hide hurt behind anger. 

“I might not know what love is,” he says, “But I know what it isn’t. Society has been perverting love for centuries, and _Roja_ is just one of the more modern aberrations. Love is not algorithms that tell you what you’re missing. It’s not the witty banter between beautiful people on TV. It’s not diamond rings that show everlasting devotion, or flowers and greeting cards because paying for useless shit is more convenient than dealing with actual feelings.” 

The frustration pent up inside feels like an itch he can’t scratch, and talking about it doesn’t exactly make it better. On the contrary, Isco feels out of control—in the worst, _ugliest_ way imaginable. If he could take the last few minutes of his life back, he would. He doesn’t quite realize it yet, but the progression of this conversation promises regret. 

“Knowing what love isn’t—it’s a good way to summarize people’s attitudes, I think,” James says shyly. “Although, I’d like to believe that flowers are a bit more personable.” 

Isco could be more tactful, considering James is an employee (a happy one, might he add) at a flower shop. But just because Isco likes James doesn’t mean he has to like what he does—and vice versa, he hopes. Flowers and gift-giving represent a traditional evil, the foundation on which _Roja_ has spawned. Isco doesn’t hesitate to tell James exactly that. 

“But flowers are more than what they are,” James remains steadfast. “They have meaning, a language.” 

“A language,” Isco repeats, unconvinced. 

“It’s true,” James says. “People are drawn to flowers not just because they look pretty or smell nice. Different flowers mean different things, and they are a language, just like Spanish or English or Italian. And any language can be deceiving. Is there really a difference between saying ‘I love you’ without meaning it and giving roses to someone without actually loving the person?” 

James is sitting a little straighter in his seat, his eyes a little brighter. He speaks purposefully, but his words are measured and sincere, as if he had also spent some time deliberating on the topic. Isco listens, but he can’t dissociate from the bitterness grating in his chest. 

“I don’t think the problem is the language,” the florist explains. “There is always a barrier between languages and emotions that people are trying to cross. But nothing we have is sufficient—whether it’s words, images, or symbols through gifts. A lot of it comes down to trust, which can be easily exploited—like you said. As limited as languages are, they’re still the only way we know how to communicate. And we all need to collectively try a little harder on the emotional side to make the whole language thing even stand a chance—whatever language it might be. So if someone wants to convey love, and _really_ mean it, with roses instead of words, then why not let them?” 

“And of course, you provide the services for that. For a small fee,” Isco laughs, and there is a touch of malice in his tone that is meant to sting. He feels angry, worsened by the absence of anything tangible toward which he can justifiably direct his frustration. James is here, though—simply _here_. 

The florist stands up, taking a moment to brush the wrinkles from his shirt before gathering his things. “Yeah, I sell flowers to impulsive young people and grandmas looking to liven their homes. Occasionally, a lost lover wanders in. It’s exactly the same as exploiting people’s fear of rejection with fake research and the false promises of love.” 

James doesn’t meet his eyes, hurt. Isco wants to apologize, wants to ask for James to stay, but the words never quite form on his lips. He sinks back into the park bench once he is alone, his anger dissipating and suddenly replaced with overwhelming guilt. 

God, he is such an _asshole_. 

  


  


The shopkeeper's bell rings blithely as Isco pushes past the front doors of _Girasol_. It’s an early Monday afternoon, and the shop is mostly empty, save for one elderly woman hovering over the bouquets of tulips. James is standing behind the clerk’s desk, trimming the leaves of a potted plant. He dutifully ignores Isco as the latter steps timidly inside. 

“Excuse me,” Isco says as he approaches, softly strumming the counter top with his fingers. “I’d like a bouquet of hyacinth.” 

“Hyacinth,” James echoes, arching a brow. 

“Yeah, hyacinth,” Isco confirms once James’ eyes properly reach his. “It’s a symbol for, ‘I’m sorry for being a dick.’ I looked it up, and the pronunciation too. Tricky word.” 

“I’d like the purple kind,” he adds when James doesn’t respond right away. “I heard it looks nice, but I wouldn’t know. What do you think?” 

“I think purple is a beautiful color for hyacinths.” The florist’s smile is slow and sincere. Isco releases the breath he had unknowingly held. “Would that be all, sir?” 

“Do you think my friend will forgive me?” 

James laughs. “I think he will.” 

“Great.” Isco taps the counter in a mock gesture of an auctioneer officiating a sale. “I’ll take a dozen.” 

They stay in a comfortable silence before James speaks again, while wrapping the bouquet in paper and ribbon. “You look very handsome today,” he comments. 

“Thanks. I just came from a wedding rehearsal.” Isco smooths the front of his suit jacket, thumbing the buttons on his shirt. “This—it’s blue.” 

“It is blue,” James agrees. 

“Okay, just double checking,” Isco says nervously, shuffling from foot to foot. “Would you like to come to Nacho and Maria’s wedding with me?” 

James blinks at him, his surprise mostly contained. “Are you asking me on a date?” 

“Well, you’re free to interpret it any way you’d like. But it’ll be cool if you came.” 

“A wedding for a first date,” the florist teases, “Isn’t that a bit daunting.” 

“I don’t know—” Isco flushes. “I just didn’t want to be there by myself, spilling wine on my shirt and not even noticing the stain. It’s about me, really—not you.” 

It took effort and courage to keep his eyes steady with James’, and Isco is soon rewarded with another smile—open, honest, and without a hint of uncertainty. “I would love to go to Nacho and Maria’s wedding with you.” 

~~

“We are gathered here today to celebrate the marriage of José Fernández and Maria Cortes. Let us call upon God as we witness this union of two into one. May the vows they take bind together their hopes. May the rings they wear symbolize a love freely given, without beginning or end. May the love they share be fruitful, so they may bare witness to Your divine love in the world. We ask this through our Lord, Jesus Christ, Your Son who lives and reins with You and the Holy Spirit, one God, forever and ever.”

“Amen.”

~~

“So?” Adriana sinks into the vacant chair beside Isco, sighing airily.

“So,” Isco repeats, sipping his gin and tonic.

“You’ve done well for yourself,” she winks, tilting her head towards James on the other side of the lawn. “I mean look at him—he can dance, he’s great with kids, and he’s incredibly good-looking. All the moms are swooning right now.”

Isco laughs, feeling something akin to pride brimming inside, although he knows better than to be too careless with hope. “We’re good friends. It’s not anything serious.”

They’re nearing the end of cocktail-hour, and the first dance of the bride and groom is about to begin. James appears preoccupied with Nacho’s nephews and nieces, teaching a young girl in pigtails how to play bocce ball.

“I’m almost jealous,” Adriana pouts, eyeing Dani among a group of other male guests by the open bar. “I would like a dance, but Dani never wants to do anything.”

Isco shrugs. “I’m sure you can convince him. He might act all moody at times, but he’ll do anything for you.”

“I know.” A smile tugs at her lips, a glint of mischief shining in her eyes. “I’m going to catch the bouquet. That’ll send him a message, right?”

“Everyone knows he’s going to marry you,” Isco laughs, “Just give him time to do things at his own pace. It’s a big deal, obviously. For him, too. It’s on his mind.”

“I guess you’re right.” Adriana appears placated, although her lips are still pursed in a petulant pout. “I can’t believe I’m asking you for relationship advice now. Look how the tables have turned.”

“Well, technically speaking, I rarely _ask_ for your advice,” Isco teases and receives an immediate punch to his shoulder.

“You’re such an ungrateful brat!” Adriana huffs. “You wouldn’t have even met James if it weren’t for me.”

“You mean, if you didn’t fuck up the only wedding chore Maria had trusted you with.” He manages to evade the second punch, all the while balancing his drink.

Adriana makes a small, frustrated sound, but her whimsical laughter dances in his ears. “Regardless, I’m glad to have James with us. He was so patient and helpful—and you know how particular Maria can be. The flower arrangements are just phenomenal.”

“I’m sure they are,” Isco offers a small smile. Adriana’s own vanishes.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. There’s a sad turn to her lips but a vague hope etched in her eyes as she continues, “I have a feeling that this time is going to be different, though.”

Isco laughs. He looks at the sky above—a lifeless gray despite being bright and clear, not a single cloud to loom over the joyous occasion. “How would you know?”

“Because—” Adriana furrows her brows, conjuring her words. “Because you smile when no one else is watching, and you don’t seem so alone anymore, even when you’re with friends. You look happy when he’s around, like—” she gently taps the corner of her eye. “—like _this_ doesn’t matter anymore.”

Isco looks at Adriana, his mind surprisingly blank. He fails to formulate a response even as she stands to leave. “I’m happy that you’re happy.” She reaches for his hand, her touch soft and understanding. “We all are.”

James soon reappears, replacing Adriana as he drops into the vacant seat beside Isco. He sighs, wiping away the perspiration at his hairline from the lawn games. A clearing forms at the center of the dance floor, as Nacho and Maria step forward hand in hand. Isco watches mesmerized as they move like waltzing figurines in a music box, Maria’s snowy gown glistening under the afternoon sun.

Isco feels a small knock against his knee, as James pushes a leg against his. “Want to dance with me next?” 

“I don’t really dance.” He looks away, suddenly shy.

“Don’t worry.” James’ palm against his wrist is warm and solid. “I can show you,” he says, pulling Isco from his seat and leading him to the dance floor.

  


Festivities are exhausting, Isco decides after two champagne toasts, four speeches, a round of dinner, half an hour of dancing, one bouquet toss, and the cutting and ingestion of a large tiered cake. Isco needed a coffee to get through the better part of the night and opted for a second cup before driving James safely home. 

The streets are quiet and empty in the cool autumn evening. Isco has the window down and the radio tuned to a random pop station. They’re quiet for most of the ride, but it’s not unpleasant. James would sometimes reach over and rest a hand on Isco’s thigh, strumming to the beat of the music and leaving warmth wherever he touches. 

“I know it’s late on a Sunday night,” James says just as Isco pulls in front of his apartment building, “But would you like to come upstairs, for a drink or just to sit down?” 

James bites shyly at his lips, his dark eyes teeming with hope. Isco has never accepted an invitation more gladly in his life. 

~~

“I’ve been waiting all day to do this,” James says as he crowds into Isco as soon as the door to his apartment closes. He has both hands on Isco’s hips, pushing him against the nearest wall.

“Really? Churches, weddings, familial gatherings get you hot like this?” Isco jokes nervously, but James’ laughter quells some of his anxiety. 

“No, seeing you so prim and proper.” His mouth is close to Isco’s own, not quite touching, his breath warm like summer against Isco’s skin. “Made me want to push your shirt up and leave marks all over. Or rut against you until you came in those perfectly pressed trousers.” 

“ _Jesus_ —” Isco moans. Someone as sweet as James should not be allowed to say anything of the sort. He finds it incredibly hot, nonetheless.

He reaches for James’s face and pulls him in for a kiss. And it’s happening, it’s real. James’ mouth is warm and insistent, sighing with relief and promise as the kiss deepens. 

Isco feels hands slipping past his suit jacket, arms circling his waist and pulling him closer. James breaks the kiss to trail his lips across Isco’s cheek, kissing his jawline and the sensitive skin along his neck. Isco lets out a shaky breath, his heart fluttering wildly like a panicked bird. He wonders if James can feel it too, beating against his own.

“Bedroom,” James whispers as he untucks Isco’s shirt, ghosting his fingers along the exposed skin. “Come on.”

He guides Isco to the bedroom with a steady hand on his wrist. Once inside, Isco feels a fresh wave of trepidation as James slips off his own jacket, undoing the buttons of his shirt.

“What’s the matter?” he asks upon realizing Isco’s hesitation.

“You know that I can’t—” Isco swallows, looking away. “I might never be able to—” He blinks meaningfully into the darkness of the bedroom, yearning to see something, _anything_ besides the shadowy corners and the dim, foggy light beyond gray curtains.

“Do you want to be with me?” James asks calmly, invading Isco’s space again and holding him gently by the waist. 

And Isco wants to say ‘Yes, of course. What a stupid thing to ask.’ He nods instead, too stunned for words.

“Then, it’s okay,” James smiles as he kisses him softly, a reassuring brush against his lips. “It doesn’t matter. There’s no pressure, we’re just having fun.”

James smiles and takes a step back, pulling his shirt over his head without undoing the rest of the buttons. It’s going to wrinkle, Isco thinks stupidly, as James tosses it carelessly aside and unfastens his belt. 

Isco mirrors James’ movements, and once they are both stripped to their underwear, James takes Isco by the wrists, drawing him along until they are at the edge of the bed. 

James falls back onto the mattress first, pulling Isco with him until the smaller male is in his lap. He wraps his arms around Isco, burying a kiss into the crook of his neck. Isco feels lingering touches across his back, along his sides, before resting against the curve of his ass.

He threads his fingers into James’ hair, bringing their lips together for another kiss. James hums into it, letting Isco take control. Isco moves against him, nips at his lower lip, and licks into his mouth. James slips a hand between them, fondling Isco through his boxers and muffling his quiet, breathless moans. 

James flips them over suddenly, and Isco lands unceremoniously on his back. James palms him a few more times before pulling down his waistband and freeing his cock, glistening with wetness and impossibly hard. 

Isco watches his own chest heave and listens to the guttural moans drawn out of his throat as James wraps his fingers around him, slickening his length with precome and teasing his head with each flick of the wrist.

James leans in to kiss Isco’s neck as he jerks him, dragging tongue and teeth along his collarbone and chest, before mouthing at a hardened nipple.

“If you’re going to fuck me—” Isco manages between embarrassingly shaky gasps. “You better do it, right now.”

James laughs, climbing up his body to kiss him chastely, before reaching over to the nightstand beside his bed. Isco takes the opportunity to nip along the line of his neck, cupping James through his underwear before pulling the fabric down. 

They fuck with Isco on his stomach, setting a rhythm that’s just on the edge of wild abandon. James tries to be mindful, tries to be certain that every sound drawn from Isco is one of pleasure. And Isco would reassure him if he weren’t too concerned with spreading himself open, grinding to meet James halfway, and moaning into the pillow beneath his chin. 

He feels heat pooling in his stomach, pleasure shooting up his spine with each thrust. He is so close he could sob and nearly does when James pulls out suddenly, turning Isco around and pushing him onto his back. 

“James,” Isco begs, writhing uselessly on the bed under the other’s insistent gaze. James appeases him quickly, sliding down Isco’s body to swallow him whole.

“Ah!” Isco’s voice shatters, his stomach quivering as he grips at short, dark hair. James has three digits inside, keeping him open as he sucks him off. 

“I—I’m going to—” Isco tries to warn him, hips stuttering despite James’ efforts to hold him still. James pays no heed, simply hums around Isco as his fingers rub relentlessly against his prostate.

Isco cries out as he comes, his body arching and muscles clenched tight as pleasure overtakes him in waves of blinding heat. James swallows around him and licks him clean, kissing the junction of his hips with care.

When James fucks him again, Isco is boneless in his arms, hazy and trembling through his post-orgasm high. James kisses him on his forehead, his cheek, his mouth as Isco rambles on, urging and pleading until James groans into the crook of his neck and comes deep inside.

  


  


“I like your eyes,” James says the next morning as they lie lazily beneath the sheets in a warm tangle of limbs. 

Isco rubs at his eyes, stifling a yawn. He has decided to skip work today, not wanting to ruin the perfect end to a great weekend by showing up to work. “Why?” he asks. “They’re brown.” 

James raises his brows, surprised. “How’d you know they’re brown?” 

“My mother told me,” Isco half-snorts, “And besides, I can tell by how dark they are. They’re brown.” 

“I still like them,” James smiles, running a hand along Isco’s cheek and circling his thumb on the skin just beneath his lashes. 

Isco flushes, looking away. “They’re nothing special.” 

“My favorite color is brown,” James insists, and Isco can’t help but laugh at that, incredulous. 

“Shut up,” he grins, linking his fingers with James’. “No one’s favorite color is brown.” 

  


  


Months have passed, and Isco still can only see gray, even though he wakes up content each morning with James by his side, warm and solid beneath their heavy winter quilts. But James doesn’t seem to mind, has never once prodded or made Isco feel uneasy, although that never stops Isco from feeling uneasy on his own. 

On one of the rarer mornings in early February, Isco wakes up cold and alone—James’ warmth all but a ghost in the vacant spot next to him. It’s a Wednesday, meaning James has to open the shop early. He must’ve slipped out of the apartment quietly before dawn, careful not to disturb his lover. 

Isco pulls on a pair of discarded boxers, yawning as he scratches the soft hairs trailing his stomach. He waddles into the kitchen and switches on his coffeemaker before noticing James’ scarf draped over the backseat of his sofa. Something about it changes, and Isco only catches it briefly from the corner of his eyes as he takes his first sip of dark, bitter coffee. He turns to the scarf immediately and inspects it for a long minute, the hues of gray subtle but distinct in the knitted material. Isco glances to the stupid cat painting above his TV next, and realizes that nothing has changed. He doesn’t think about it again for the rest of the day. 

~~

In the next two weeks, Isco sees flickers and hints on everyday objects too frequently for him to brush it off as his imagination. The colors are not always consistent. He does not see red first or blue, then yellow followed by green, violet, orange, brown, and every shade in between. Rather, the colors—regardless of what they may be—come and go without any detectable pattern, and it takes a bit of time for Isco to learn that James’ forgotten scarf is navy blue, and the paint job on his bike is light green, and his favorite sweater is faded orange marled with brown and black specks.

On his way to work, he notices the vibrant awnings of the coffee shops and stores that he and James have frequented together. At the farmers market, he sees the redness of bell peppers, the greenness of zucchinis, and the color of each vegetable James has carefully picked out for their dinner later. Anything and everything he comes across that reminds him even remotely of James appears brighter, a shade more vibrant against the monochrome backdrop.

 _Roja_ , Inc meanwhile remains a motionless gray no matter how long Isco blinks at the building or sits inside his small, confined cubicle surrounded by computer screens. The next day, he hands in his resignation.

It’s winter so everything is supposed to be dull and dreary, but not even the faintest, subtlest shade of color escapes Isco’s notice. The sky above him is undoubtedly blue, and the golden sunlight reflects brilliantly on the melting snow. Beyond the window frames of _Girasol_ are bouquet after bouquet of beautiful arrangements—from roses and lilies to Forget-me-nots, in a kaleidoscope of colors.

Isco hasn’t told James any of these new developments because he wanted to wait, wanted to be absolutely sure. And now, he realizes he has never been so sure of anything in his entire life.

He finds James standing in the center of the shop, holding a bundle of sunflowers in his arms. They are bright and yellow, their large daisy-like faces ripened with speckled brown seeds.

“Isco,” James says, surprised to see him so early on a weekday.

Isco simply stands there, wordless from the warmth in his chest and the whirlwind of emotions inside his head. He walks up to James, pushes past the sunflowers to reach his face, before drawing him close so their lips can meet.

  
  


  


“Hey, Isco—Wake up!” 

Isco blinks blearily into the darkness, needing a few vital seconds to orient himself in his surroundings. He’s in James bed, he realizes. Correction. He’s being dragged out of James’ bed. 

“The hell?” he mumbles groggily into his pillow, shoving the florist away. “Fuck, let me sleep.” 

It’s Saturday, if Isco remembers correctly, meaning he shouldn’t even be awake until the sun is high in the sky. James fucking him senseless the night before doesn’t exactly help his early morning temperament, either. 

“Come on, Isco,” James says insistently, shoving at him until he’s sitting before throwing a pair of jeans, a shirt, and a jacket his way. “Put these on. Hurry. I’ll let you sleep in the car if you want.” 

“Where are we going?” Isco manages, pulling the shirt over his head. 

“You’ll see,” is all the answer he gets before receiving a consolation kiss on the cheek. 

It’s ridiculous how trusting Isco has become, offering James the keys to his car without a clue as to where they might be going. He doesn’t even question it further, too exhausted to manage anything more than a stubborn grunt as James opens the passenger door for him, nudging him inside. 

The cool, early morning air is enough to keep Isco teetering on the brink of wakefulness. He loses track of how long they’ve been driving, James quiet as he steers the wheel, keeping his promise to let Isco sleep. 

They reach the edge of the city by the time James shifts the car into park. He exits the vehicle, taking a reluctant Isco with him before sitting both of them on the hood of the car. Isco has his head on James’ shoulder, eyes half-closed as James wraps an arm around him, keeping him warm against the early March morning. 

The faintest of light in the distant horizon is enough to jolt Isco awake. He opens his eyes to see a small rosy glow swelling from where the Earth meets the sky, catching the moment by the millisecond as dawn finally breaks. Orange spills into the squid-ink night, tinting the billows of clouds varying shades of pale pinks and majestic violets. The sun rises like a great marigold, dissolving the darkness in a splendid celebration of passionate colors. 

“Oh,” Isco exhales a shaky breath, suddenly realizing that his face is warm and wet. He hears James calling his name, watching him. 

“Fuck,” he blinks away, vision blurred and cheeks flushed with embarrassment and something else. “Just—give me a second,” is all he manages with a treacherous quiver in his voice. 

James concedes, looking instead to the rising sun. Isco feels the florist shift beside him, covering Isco’s hand with his own. “I love you, you know,” James says. 

Isco knows, although he can’t exactly bring himself to say it back. He sniffles, wiping at his face hurriedly before turning to James, finally meeting his eyes. 

And in that moment, he forgets all about the colors. He only sees James. 

  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Feedback is loved, as always xx


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